


Snowblind (The Hypothermia Remix)

by SmileAndASong



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Avengers Mansion, Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cold Weather, Guilt, Homelessness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 03:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmileAndASong/pseuds/SmileAndASong
Summary: There’s a man lying against the gilded gates of Avengers Mansion and at first, Steve doesn’t recognize him.





	Snowblind (The Hypothermia Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ironlawyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironlawyer/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Snow Demons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301265) by [Ironlawyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironlawyer/pseuds/Ironlawyer). 
  * In response to a prompt by [Ironlawyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironlawyer/pseuds/Ironlawyer) in the [2019_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2019_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness) collection. 



> This is a remix of some super quality blizzard angst by Ironlawyer. I loved how Steve detached himself from Tony and how unapologetic he was in the end. Then I thought to myself, 'what if I did the exact opposite?'
> 
> And thus, this fic was born!

There’s a man lying against the gilded gates of Avengers Mansion and at first, Steve doesn’t recognize him.

Steve approaches the man and first makes note that he’s breathing. That he’s alive. He’s clad in garments that are doing him no favors in the brutal cold — the remains of a suit, from what Steve can gather. Once upon a time, it might have been a pretty nice suit, too.

He’s got a bottle in his hand. It’s empty, yet he still holds it with an iron grip, like it’s the most precious thing in the world, or at least, in his sad, dismal world. 

The bottle is missing its label, but the lingering scent of whiskey tells Steve all he needs to know. His brow furrows, and he’s tempted to step past the man now that he knows what’s keeping him out in the storm. He’s dealt with far too many people that have preferred to find solace in the bottom of a bottle over the companionship of friends and loved ones. The thought is fleeting, and it dispels from his mind quickly. He doesn’t leave, he never does. 

He always gives an honest try. 

Steve sighs and nudges the man’s shoe. “Hey.” There’s no response. His voice is drowned out by the piercing roar of the wind. 

He tries again, this time a bit louder. “Hey!” No response. 

Steve reaches out — not for the man, but for the bottle in his hand - and snatches it away with a little more force than is necessary. It finally elicits a reaction out of the man; his eyes shoot open and it’s only then that Steves realizes that he knows those eyes.

He’d know them anywhere. 

“Tony?” Steve asks, but he really wants to be wrong. There's no way this can be Tony, no way he's fallen this much since the Bowery incident.

He’s right, unfortunately. There's no faking that voice, the one that once made his heart flutter — now it just made it shatter. “Steve? W-what are you doing here?” Tony shifts around, like he’s looking for something to hide behind, like maybe Steve will forget he’s there if he can’t see him. 

“I live here.” _And you do, too_ , He wants to say, but he doesn’t because he knows it’s not true. Not anymore. If Tony still lived here, he would be safe and warm inside the Mansion, not slowly withering into nothing outside of it. 

“You should get inside then, Steve. It’s...it’s cold out,” Tony stutters, voice shakey like the rest of his body. His teeth are chattering loud enough to be heard over the howling winds, and his skin is getting paler by the second, like he’s becoming a ghost right before Steve’s eyes. 

If he stays out here any longer, that will indubitably become his fate.

“If I go, will you come in with me?” Steve asks, voice more desperate than it his firm like he wants it to be. His eyes drift away from Tony and to the cold glass in his hand. “And _only_ you.”

Tony bites his lip. “I can’t do that...”

“Why? Because I won’t let this come in with you?” Steve tosses the bottle aside. It doesn't shatter. He wishes it had.

“No,” Tony says; the hesitation in his voice suggests otherwise. “I just...” The sentence isn't finished. His eyes shut and he falls — further into the snow and further away from consciousness.

“Tony...” Steve drops to his knees. The cold, wet snow leaks through slacks, soddening them. It burns, but he ignores it. His pain is a secondary concern right now. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it securely around Tony.

Tony relaxes into the warmth the heavy fabric provides, but he's still trembling and his breathing is still heavy. He needs more. Steve doesn’t hesitate — he can’t afford to — and scoops Tony up into his arms. He’s disturbed by how little there is _to_ hold; he can feel each individual rib protruding against him. It's like he’s cuddling a corpse.

“We need to get you out of here. Please, let me take you inside,” Steve begs.

Tony's lips purse together and Steve can read the word they're trying to form — 'No'. 

“Hey, it’s alright. I know we turned our backs on you, and we shouldn’t have done that.” _I shouldn’t have done that…_ “But we tried — _I_ tried — so damn hard, and you refused help. You chose the bottle over the team, you chose the bottle over me! What was I supposed to do?” The words come out harsher than he intends and Tony recoils away from him. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make Steve regret the bite in his words.

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes — almost too quickly— and it's not just for raising his voice. “If not the mansion—” The word ‘home’ nearly slips out instead, but he catches himself. “—will you at least let me take you someplace warm?” _Will you let me help you this time?_

“Will you be..” Tony says, blue lips quivering as he speaks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes, I’ll be there,” Steve finishes the thought for him. He secures a firm grip on Tony and he rises to his feet. “I won’t leave you, not again...” _Not ever._

Tony says something into Steve’s chest before silence overtakes him. It sounds like “thank you”. Steve’s not sure if Tony actually said it or if he’s just being duped by a comforting delusion, but he and his unwavering optimism choose to believe in it. It’s his last shred of hope, something he desperately needs right about now. He clings to it as he begins his trudge through the dark, ominous streets.

It’s hard to see; everything is dark and his vision is faltering against the strong winds. Even with their force and power, they still can’t carry the scent of old liquor off of Tony. Steve is reminded of his own shortcomings as the odor of cheap booze wafts up to him. His eyes are watering and the tears freeze against his cheeks, but not all of them can be blamed on the ferocity of the wind.

He can just barely see the bright light of a red cross in the distance. It's a beacon of hope in the midst of the dark, desolate storm. His legs are heavy, his fingers numb, and he can’t feel anything a damn thing — not Tony in his arms, not the faint drumming of his heartbeat, nothing. 

It's possible that Tony is already dead.

The chilling thought and the fear of it coming to fruition instills one last surge of energy in Steve. He bursts into an invigorated sprint and he doesn't stop until he reaches the doors of their sanctuary.

Tony lifts his head up from Steve’s chest once they’re safely inside. He’s still alive, thank god. His eyes open only half-way, and they're hollow, empty, utterly devoid of the warmth that Steve used to love in them. He uses his last bit of strength to speak: “I’m sorry, Steve...” His grip loosens, his eyes shut, and the last bit of color drains from his face.

No.

Steve gently shakes him. “Tony, wake up.” He stays completely still. 

No, no, _no_!

“Tony, please…we’re here, we’re safe.”

He doesn’t stir; he’s stagnant and motionless in Steve’s arms.

“ _Tony_!” Nothing.

It isn’t the end, it just can’t be — not when Tony had come home, not when Tony had let him help, not when Tony is _sorry_.

Steve frantically cries for help, shaking Tony over and over but his efforts are fruitless. He doesn't wake.

The doctors wheel Tony away on a stretcher; Steve doesn’t relinquish his hand until he's whisked off to the restricted side of the emergency room. Steve is then brought into a quiet waiting room by a friendly nurse. He has managed to calm down, if only somewhat. He’s not sobbing anymore, but his eyes are still puffy and red

The nurse is unnecessarily concerned about him and his well-being. She asks him several times if he wants to see a doctor, among other offers that are all pointless to Steve. He declines everything except a cup of hot coffee. 

“Is he going to wake up?” Steve eventually asks instead of answering the nurse’s question about whether or not Tony has insurance (he doesn’t know anyway).

The nurse smiles at him; it feels rehearsed, like it’s the one she always gives to the concerned friends and family of patients in particularly difficult situations. “We’ll find out in due time,” She says, and Steve appreciates her sincerity, even if it stings. “He seems like someone pretty important to you. I take it you know him well?”

 _Yes, I love him and now he might be dead because of me_ , is what comes to mind first. Steve goes with something else instead. 

“Yes,” He answers decisively. “He’s my best friend.”

He’s never told Tony that he loves him, and he’s not about to say it to a random nurse first. He’s going to tell Tony the moment he wakes up, because he _is_ going to wake up and he _is_ going to stop drinking and they _are_ going to be happy together 

How could they not be? 

Tony is sorry, Steve loves him, and he is never going to turn his back on Tony again. 

_That’ll be enough_ , Steve tells himself as he stares longingly at the emergency room door.

That’ll be enough.


End file.
